


hands.

by angelsandpizza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, im dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsandpizza/pseuds/angelsandpizza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then you think that maybe that’s what love is. Maybe it’s not a million roses and chocolates. Maybe it’s not waking up in the morning and whispering ballads into his ear. Maybe it’s just looking at your hands and his, and instead of overbearing yourself with the weight of all they’ve done, of everything to be ashamed of, you tell yourself the one thing they’ve done you could never regret is hold him. Your hands have held his. Your hands have held him. Your hands have guided one another through darkness, and kept their grip strong and firm when it seemed as if there was no way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands.

Hands.

His have always seemed like a smaller part of the picture.There is an entire cosmic entity bustling inside the borrowed body of a man you barely knew, and sometimes all you can do is focus on the smallest aspects of him. Sometimes it’s his eyes; a blue that goes deeper and beyond than just pigment. Sometimes it’s his lips; soft. Smiling. Talking. And sometimes it’s his hands.

You know that it’s fucking crazy to look at someone who once shattered the windows of a room by just simply being there and not feeling overwhelmed, like you should be bowing down to him. Instead, you focus on the smallest little parts of him, the smallest habits and tendencies, the smallest things that make him him. Maybe there was a time where you would look at him and think _oh shit,_ back in that barn, because really, what else could you have done? But now you look at him, and behind power and divinity you know that there is so much to him, which is fucking insane because he was an angel and what more could someone even be.

Sometimes you look at his hands, seeing the scars on them, how rough they look, and wonder just how many battles those hands have fought. Sometimes you look at his fingers, long and nimble, and you wish to interlock them with yours, stroke them as you look into each other’s eyes, getting lost in the infinite pigment of one another. You look at his knuckles and you want to kiss each and every single one of them. They look pink and you can see each of the individual crisscrossing lines on his skin, the light, white lines that look like cracks. You want to hold his hands and feel their roughness in yours, and you know you’ve never been much for poetry and romance, but you wish that your tongue was strong enough to speak the words of the love poems that you only wish you could write, and you know you would go out to buy a thousand roses if that’s what it took to let him know that you love him so goddamn much that it leaves you breathless. You want his hands by your side as you fight through a world where you’ve both just barely survived. You look at his hands and you want them to tell you their story.

Yours have always been rough and calloused, with bruises and angry red marks that you wish you could make disappear. As a kid you were embarrassed of them. At school as you worked, your pencil quietly touching the surface of paper after paper, your teachers would often ask you if something was wrong, if there was something going on that they should be worried about, and all you did was shake your head no, look down, and sink a little lower into your seat. And now you look at his hands, and you think of every blade they’ve held and every scratch they’ve been marked with, every flaw requiring bandaging and stitching that somehow are the things that hold them together, and then you look at yours, seeing the exact same thing. It makes you wonder why you look at your hands with disgust and shame, and the other with nothing but love. It makes you wonder if he looks at his with shame and guilt and yours with beauty and warmth. And then you think that maybe that’s what love is. Maybe it’s not a million roses and chocolates. Maybe it’s not waking up in the morning and whispering ballads into his ear. Maybe it’s just looking at your hands and his, and instead of overbearing yourself with the weight of all they’ve done, of everything to be ashamed of, you tell yourself the one thing they’ve done you could never regret is hold him. Your hands have held his. Your hands have held him. Your hands have guided one another through darkness, and kept their grip strong and firm when it seemed as if there was no way out.

And just like how his hands are only a little part of him, they are also only a little part of your love.

**Author's Note:**

> im sad and can't write n*ce


End file.
